There was no music at Castle Raine, little light, and the fresh-quarried stones still bore the clammy chill of the earth.

A chill that Mara Geary was supposed to banish as part of her duties as one of the new maids. Not that she thought Castle Raine would ever be warm, not even in midsummer. It certainly was frigid now, in spring, with no hint of the softening air
outside penetrating the tall stone walls or creeping in through the narrow windows.

Mara’s tallow candle sent flickering shadows dancing over the grey walls, lighting the way as she and Fenna, who had only been hired two days ago, hurried to the Great Room to light the fires. Mara’s wooden bucket of kindling bumped against her leg and the whisk broom at her waist rasped over her wool skirts with every step she took.

“It’s not what I imagined,” Fenna said as they knelt to clean the ashes out of one of the great hearths. “Somehow I thought it would be more exciting, serving at the castle.”

“Well, Castle Raine has only been finished for a month,” Mara said. “Perhaps once the weather turns warm and more lords and ladies come to visit, it will be more interesting.”

Fenna frowned and cast a look over her shoulder at the dark recesses of the Great Hall. “Dunno why anyone would want to come visit here. The castle’s grim enough, and then there’s the Darkwood just outside.”

Mara refrained from pointing out that the King of Raine lived at the castle now, and soon enough it would become a hub of activity. Fenna was a sweet girl, but not quick to put all the pieces together.

Still, it was true that life as a maid in Castle Raine had been dreary so far. If she were honest with herself, Mara had to admit that she, too, had thought working at the castle would be less full of drudgery and more…

She tried to find the right word for it. More lively. More interesting, certainly.

“You don’t have to worry about the Darkwood,” she said to Fenna. “I know you’re from the coastlands, but the forest isn’t anything to fear.”

“But the stories…” Fenna trailed off, the sibilant echo of her words hanging in the air.

“Just old tales.” Mara finished sweeping up the last of the ashes and deposited them in Fenna’s bucket. “Nothing interesting has happened in the Darkwood for centuries. Not since the Dark Elves disappeared.”

“Were they real, then?” Fenna paused in laying the kindling and stared at Mara with wide eyes. “What if they decide to come out and murder us all in our sleep?”

Mara laughed. “Believe me, that won’t happen. There’s no magical doorway in the forest anymore. People have searched for generations.”

She didn’t mention that strange things still happened sometimes in the Darkwood.

No point in frightening Fenna any further. And strange didn’t necessarily mean dangerous.

She brushed off her skirt and rose to her feet. “That’s this fire done. One more in here, and then we move to the smaller rooms.”

Only one peculiar thing had ever happened to Mara in the forest, and even now she wasn’t entirely sure it had been real. It had been on her thirteenth birthday, nearly four years ago.

Mara had gone out with her siblings to fetch wood for their dwindling stores. Birthday or not, there was always work to be done.

As the middle child of five, she was used to being left on her own.

Her older brother and sister were twins, and always paired up, even when they were fighting. Sometimes it seemed that they lived in a different world from the rest of the family, a world full of the secret language of shared birth that no one else could penetrate.

Mara had tried for years, and when she’d finally given up and resigned herself to being nothing more than the tagalong, she’d found that her two younger sisters had made an alliance of their own, with no room left for annoying older siblings.

So there she was, the odd one out, quite literally.

The air had been cool that day in the Darkwood, and moist enough that dew still clung to the new leaves of the curled ferns. Mara practiced walking silently and smoothly through the trees, letting the moss cushion her steps. She’d become used
to her solitude, though she didn’t necessarily embrace it.

A few black-capped birds chirped and fluttered from bush to tree, their wings flashing whitely as they flew. She tried not to feel jealous that even the chickadees had companions when she did not.

Perhaps it was because of her birthday, or that the yearning inside her to belong somewhere was beginning to blossom into true misery, but she paused, tilted her head up to the feathery needles of the hemlock trees, and spoke.

“I wish that my life were different,” she said. “I wish something exciting would happen.”

There was no answer but the rush of the wind in the high branches. Sighing, Mara dropped her gaze back to the forest floor, searching for sticks to place in her burlap bag.

Then the breeze changed, murmuring down to pull at her brown hair and push against her skirts. The air felt thicker, as though filled with invisible mist, and she could no longer hear her siblings calling to each other through the trees.

Small, twinkling lights darted and danced in the shadows ahead, bright as candle flames. Mara’s breath hitched in fear, and in wonder.

Something was happening.

The dark evergreens shivered, like animals sensing danger. Mara didn’t know whether to run toward the glimmering motes, or dash away in panic. Her heart thudded beneath her simple woolen dress.

Not yet.

It was a whisper of regret, rolling through the Darkwood.

The breeze quieted and let go of her dress. The air grew lighter. The glowing lights abruptly winked out. Loss ached through her, but for what, she did not know.

“Mara, aren’t you done?” her older sister called, her tone sharp. “We’re ready to go.”

Mara wanted to shout back that they should leave without her. Maybe if she stayed, she would rediscover whatever little bit of magic she’d just seen.

But it was the cardinal rule of living beside the Darkwood: no one ventured there alone until they were well of age. The forest might not hold uncanny dangers any longer—though after what she’d just experienced, Mara wasn’t so sure—but there were plenty of other threats lurking in the wild depths of the woods.

Bear, boar, and even wolves who howled in the winter at the far-distant moon. Not to mention poisonous mushrooms and spiders, sinkholes where a body could disappear forever, treacherous snags, and deep ravines.

Heaving a sigh, she turned and lugged her sack of branches back toward her family.

She sent a single glance over her shoulder, but there was nothing to be seen but empty underbrush and ancient trees.

Later, she’d tried to tell her next-youngest sister what she’d experienced, but Pansy only looked at her.

“There’s nothing special about the Darkwood,” Pansy said. “I can hardly wait until I’m grown up and can marry a rich merchant and move away from here. Do you want to rot in Little Hazel forever?”

Mara didn’t know what she wanted, beyond a future that felt important and real.

And though the idea of seeing the wider world was appealing, she was fairly certain her life wouldn’t feature a rich merchant.

“Where do we take the ashes?” Fenna’s question jolted Mara back to her work.

She blew out a breath and turned her mind back to tending the cold hearths of the castle. Back to a life that felt small and exceedingly unimportant.

***

In the double-mooned realm of Elfhame, the halls of the Hawthorne Court were hushed, the dim corridors even more shadowed than usual. The Hawthorne Prince,
Brannon Luthinor, strode in and out of patches of starlight thrown from the high windows onto the flagstones.

Although he was not pleased to be summoned to his father’s court, Bran let no hint of his feelings show. For this audience, he had replaited his black hair into formal warrior’s braids on either side of his face, and donned a court tunic of indigo silk embroidered with silver.

He’d even washed the mud off his boots. Court opinion was brutal, and though he was protected somewhat by his rank and power, it was always best to give the gossips nothing to fasten upon.

Just outside the ornately patterned silver doors of the throne room, Bran paused. He’d rather face the gyrewolves and twisted spiderkin threatening their border than set foot inside this room filled with courtiers speaking untruths and twisting their actions to suit their ambitions. But the robed servant standing outside the room was watching him expectantly, and there could be no escape.

Settling his jeweled sword more firmly at his hip, Bran took a deep breath, then nodded at the doorman. The servant waved his hand, summoning the small magic that would open the double doors.

“His Highness the Hawthorne Prince, Brannonilon Luthinor!”

The doorman’s voice rang out, and Bran stared impassively at the far wall as all eyes turned to him. A few gazes held admiration, others envy, but the worst were the ladies who viewed him as a means to an end, either for themselves or their daughters. That end being the Hawthorne Throne.

Their court was not the most powerful in Elfhame, but it was one of the oldest, and well placed among the seven ruling families.

Luckily, the circumstances of his birth provided an easy answer for why he was not yet married. It did not, however, provide him with a reasonable excuse for not taking mistresses—a fact that many of the women of the court liked to remind him of.

He’d had his share of dalliances, of course, but had no interest in weakening himself or his mission with misplaced attachment. Need for love made one vulnerable. He’d grown up learning that lesson and had no desire to repeat it.

At the far end of the hall stood a raised dais, and upon it sat the Hawthorne Throne, occupied by Bran’s father, Calithilon Luthinor. The years lay lightly on his face, as was the way of their people, but silver threaded his once midnight hair, and his dark eyes held a weary cast.

Beside the ornately carved Hawthorne Throne stood a smaller, less elaborate chair where Bran’s mother, Tinnueth, sat. There was no trace of warmth or greeting in her expression, but that was no different from the reception he’d received from
her all his life.

According to the gossip, the moment the prophecy had been pronounced over his newborn head, his mother had distanced herself. Although even with his younger sister, Anneth, their mother had never displayed an excess of affection.

“A heart like ice,” the nursery servants used to say after Tinnueth paid her obligatory visits to her young offspring.

Bran wasn’t supposed to understand, but he did. He’d grown up thinking he was flawed, unworthy of his mother’s care, and perhaps it had made him hard, but all good weapons must be made of stern stuff. Without that core of stone, he
would not be half the warrior he was.

A warrior who held the fate of Elfhame on his shoulders—and that fate was growing more perilous every day.

From his dais, the Hawthorne Lord lifted his hand in a clear summons, his eyes meeting Bran’s. Letting no hint of his reluctance show on his face, Bran made his way toward his parents.

He murmured greetings to the courtiers as he slid past them like water. Most let him go with a nod or reply, but his passage was halted when a particularly cloying young woman named Mireleth gripped his sleeve.

“I’m so glad you’re back at court, milord,” she said, in a low voice that was meant to be seductive.

He nodded and disengaged himself from her hold. Despite their few dalliances, he was not interested in pursuing a connection with the woman. She, however, seemed unable to grasp that fact.

“I’ll visit you later,” she called as Bran strode away.

He did not respond. Even if he’d fancied Mireleth, the prophecy was very clear concerning his fate. He was destined to marry some ungainly mortal.

There was no escaping it, but his life would be a little less miserable if he did not fall in love in the meantime.

Soon enough he reached the dais and dipped into a formal bow before his parents.

“Prince Brannon, you took your time in coming,” his father said. “I sent that summons a quarter moon ago.”

“Your pardon, my lord.” Bran kept his tone level. “I could not leave the front until we’d closed the current breaches and reinforced the barrier.”

Even then, it was risky for him to be gone. As one of the leaders, and the strongest magic user among the Dark Elf forces, they couldn’t afford for him to be away from the battle for long. But ignoring his father’s summons would have been
worse.

His mother gave a delicate sniff, conveying her disapproval and disappointment. Bran ignored her.

“Is the fight going well?” his father asked.

“Well enough.”

It was an outright lie, but Bran would say no more where the sharp ears of the courtiers might hear. Later, in the privacy of his father’s chambers, he would confide the desperate position the Dark Elves were in.

And although he’d been dreading the fulfillment of the prophecy his entire life, if it didn’t happen soon there would be nothing left to save. The Void creatures infiltrating their world would destroy Elfhame and all its courts. By now, Bran almost welcomed his fate. Almost.

“It’s good to have you back in the Hawthorne Court,” his father said. “Meet with me later in my library, and you can recount to me your glorious tales of battle.”

The look in Lord Calithilon’s eyes promised that Bran would know then why he’d been summoned. It was not something he looked forward to hearing—though if it had to do with the prophecy, then perhaps the news would not be so unwelcome.
The fate of Elfhame was paramount to his own wishes.

“My lord.” Bran bowed again, then stepped away.

He hated the dance of protocol, the layers of meaning hidden behind veiled words. And he hated to wait, especially when the barrier was not nearly as strong as everyone thought. As soon as he could escape the court for the haven of his rooms, he’d contact the front and see how they were holding.

Halfway across the throne room, he glimpsed his sister standing near the wall and altered his course to meet her. She was alone, a glass of nectar in her hand. As he approached he could see her struggling to keep her features composed in the cool expression required of court protocol.

“Lady Anneth.” He bowed before her, and could not prevent the corner of his mouth from curling up into a brief smile. His sister was the one person at court he truly cared for, and missed.

“Bran.” She held up the golden glass of nectar to hide her grin. “I’m so glad you’re home. How long can you stay?”

He glanced about, checking to make sure no eavesdroppers hovered nearby. “Not long, I’m afraid. They need me back at the battle.”

Anneth’s blackberry-colored eyes lost their merry sparkle. “Truly?”

“Don’t look so unhappy. I’ll sup with you at eventide, and you can tell me all the gossip of the court. Have you any suitors?”

A faint blush stained her pale skin. “Not to speak of.”

Bran arched a brow at her. “We’ll see about that.”

“You have your own future to think about, as well. Now that father…” She busied herself with her glass of nectar.

“What?” Cold foreboding swept through him.

“It’s not for me to say—and besides, he’s only dropped hints here and there.” She gave him a wide-eyed look. “I don’t know anything for certain. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“I will.” The sooner the better.

Bran glanced at the dais, to see Lady Tinnueth watching them with a calculating expression. What scheme were his parents brewing?

“I’ll see you at supper.” Bran made his sister a bow of farewell, then strode from the hall.

He did not slow his steps until he’d reached the privacy of his rooms in the family wing. Although he was not much in residence lately, everything was kept clean and ready for his arrival.

He wanted to throw the bedroom shutters wide to the dusky air and fill his lungs with freshness instead of the stultifying formality of court. Instead, he made sure they were firmly latched. To counter the dimness in the room, he conjured a flickering ball of foxfire. The pale blue light bobbed at his shoulder as he checked the door, then went over to his saddlebags. On his orders the servants had left them undisturbed, though the head houseman had frowned mightily when Bran
requested they leave the unpacking for him to do.

He drew out his silver scrying bowl, then poured a measure of water from the ewer on the nightstand until the bottom of the bowl was covered. Slowly, he sank down on the forest-green carpet in the center of his bedroom. It was not as soft as the
mosses he was used to perching upon, but it did have the advantage of being dry.

With the ball of foxfire hovering above his head, Bran took several deep breaths to focus his magic. He held the bowl between his cupped hands. The surface was lit with pale blue, and the dark shadow of his silhouette.

He spoke the Rune of Scrying. The hiss of the word of power twisted round the bowl. Light flared up and Bran squinted against that brightness. When it faded, he bent over the surface.

“Show me Hestil,” he said.

The face of the second-in-command of the Dark Elf forces appeared, shivering over the top of the water and then coming into focus: thin nose, narrow eyes the color of malachite, dark hair braided back from a battle-weary face.

“Well met in shadow,” Hestil said.

“And in starlight,” Bran answered, the code words assuring her that he was alone and not under duress. “How goes the fight?”

Her lips tightened. “We’re holding, but your magic is sorely missed. How soon can you return?”

Bran gave a sigh that fluttered the surface of the water, making Hestil’s reflection waver.

The Dark Elves could not win.

Every time they threw back the invaders, another breach opened and more twisted creatures flowed out of the crack between the worlds. Even if Bran revealed how dire the situation was and brought every magic-wielding elf to the front, it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.

But he would not share such hopeless thoughts with his second.

“I meet with my father later,” he said.

“Well, I hope your precious prophecy chooses to manifest soon. Doesn’t it say that during Elfhame’s greatest need, a doorway will open, bringing help?”

“That’s one interpretation.” Other than specifying that Bran must wed whatever mortal opened the door, the prophecy was annoyingly vague.

Hestil’s eyes narrowed. “I’d say the moment of need is fast approaching—especially if you dawdle overlong in your father’s court.”

“I’ll return as quickly as I can. I know how desperate our situation is.” He made his voice cold. It was not for Hestil to question her commander.

She dipped her head in apology. “I must go.”

“Of course. I’ll come soon.” He waved his hand over the bowl and Hestil’s image disappeared. His own reflection stared up at him, skin pale as moonlight, slitted eyes filled with violet shadows, dark slashes of eyebrows drawn down in a frown.

Though he knew it was useless—he’d tried it hundreds of times—he spoke the Rune once more. Silver light flared about the circumference of the bowl, and he gave his command.

“Show me the woman of the prophecy.”

As usual, the water remained a blank pool of light, revealing nothing. Bran stared into it, willing something, anything, to appear. The force of his need and frustration burned through him.

“Show her to me,” he demanded again, pulling deeply on his wellspring of magic.

The surface of the water shuddered.

He leaned forward, barely breathing. As if through a mist, he made out the figure of a mortal woman running through a forest. Her long mud-colored hair was tangled, and he glimpsed her face for one moment—the smooth curve of her cheek, a
stubborn tilt to her chin, desperation in her strange blue eyes.

Then she was gone.

Only empty water stared up at him. His power subsided and the tremble in his fingers sent a faint ripple across the surface.

Bran passed his hand over the bowl, dismissing the magic, then gently set the silver bowl aside. Closing his eyes, he fixed the glimpse of the woman firmly in his mind.
She did not seem old or disfigured, and even through the scrying bowl he sensed the determination of her spirit.

Thank the double moons.

Now if he could somehow drag her through the sealed doorway, there might be hope for Elfhame.

***

THE DUKE’S CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER ONE

The scent of ginger and molasses filled the low-ceilinged kitchen as Miss Philomena Clarke—Mena to her friends, who were regrettably few and far between, seeing as how their family estate was isolated in Yorkshire—carefully removed the pan of parkin cake from the oven.

Mrs. Stewart, their longtime family cook, looked on, arms crossed over her stout belly.

“It’s not right for gentry to be messing about in the kitchen, miss,” she said, as though they hadn’t had the same argument for years.

Though this would be the last. A pang went through Mena at the thought, and she quickly pushed the painful knowledge away. There would be time enough to give way to despair later. For now, there was gingerbread.

She inhaled deeply of the warmth as she set the pan on the iron trivet atop the wide kitchen table, then looked at Mrs. Stewart.

“I know,” Mena said, trying to smile. “And yet you indulge me.”

“I suppose someone ought,” Mrs. Stewart said with a sniff. “Whether you deserve it or not.”

Sudden tears blurred Mena’s vision and she blinked hard, hoping the cook would think the heat had gotten to her. The gruff old woman had always been kind, and the kitchen had always been Mena’s refuge from the coldness of the rest of the baronial manor.

Not that Marston Mews was a particularly grand home, as such things went. Nothing like Dovington Hall, the vast and glittering estate of the Duke of Beckford which lay on the far side of the village. In her memory, that estate was an enchanted castle, and the people who dwelt there lived happy and perfect lives.

But it had been a decade since her family had anything to do with the late Lord Beckford, his horrible wife, and their dreadfully spoiled offspring.

We were friends, once…

Before the gulf in their stations became so painfully clear.

It was true that Mena’s mother was from the village and not born into the gentry, but that was no cause for the duchess to accuse her of theft. Mena had been ten at the time—too young to fully understand the complexities that had caused the rift between the families—but she was still incensed on her parents’ behalf.

Although now that her father had passed, he was beyond caring for such things as social niceties and matters of noblesse oblige.

“Make sure Tommy doesn’t get into the gingerbread before it cools,” Mena said, slipping her hands out of the quilted oven mitts and laying them beside the pan.

“That boy’s a scamp, make no mistake,” Mrs. Stewart agreed. “But he’s good lad with the horses.”

“My cousin will keep him on, won’t he?” Mena bit her lip and glanced at the cook. For that matter, was Mrs. Stewart’s employment secure?

Mena hadn’t thought to ask her mother which of the servants would be staying when Cousin Basil took possession of the estate. Until that moment, she hadn’t thought to question the future of the staff. Not when her own fate hung so heavily, a ticking pendulum over her head, liable to crash down at any moment and crush her beneath its weight.

Come now, she told herself. Being a governess or companion won’t be so bad.

Plenty of young women of good breeding and few prospects went into genteel service. And for every tale of mistreatment and woe, there were at least an equal number of pleasant circumstances to be found. Weren’t there?

“A pity about Mr. Whittaker,” the cook said, giving Mena a sympathetic look. “Who’d have thought he’d go down to London and never come back. Especially when…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. Everyone in the village knew that young Whittaker and Miss Philomena Clarke were going to make a match. Until—they didn’t.

“Yes, well,” Mena said, briskly removing her apron and brushing a sift of flour from the black sleeve of her dress. “I’ll be down in half an hour to check on the gingerbread.”

She pinched her lips together, unable to manage even the merest smile, and marched out of the kitchen. Everything was dreadful, and not even her grandmother’s secret parkin recipe could make the future sweet.

***

Lord Andrew Harrington, fifth Duke of Beckford and generally a lighthearted fellow, stared at his sister, aghast. Despite the cheery crackle of the fire in the parlor hearth and the festive greenery draping the mantel, he felt as though he’d been thrust outside into the frosty Yorkshire morning.

“Invite Lady Marston and her daughter to Dovington?” He shook his head. “Is this why you insisted I come speak with you? It’s a preposterous idea.”

Viola smiled, as if her suggestion had been nothing out of the ordinary.

“Consider it an act of neighborly kindness,” she said. “The baron is dead now—forgive my bluntness, but it’s the truth—and Mena and her mother are soon to be turned out of their only home. The cousin sounds quite dreadful, from what I hear in the village.”

There was so much wrong with her words, Drew didn’t know where to begin. He held his hand up and began ticking off his points, as if that would make Viola see reason.

“One,” he said, raising his index finger, “the unfortunate event of the baron’s death doesn’t change the longstanding feud between our families. Or did you forget that the baroness and our mother are bitter enemies? Two, that young woman’s name is Miss Clarke in this household, not Mena. And three, I can’t believe you’re going gossiping about the village like some common schoolgirl.”

He shook his upraised fingers at her.

Unrepentant, Viola lifted her eyes to the cloud-painted ceiling. “I thought you, of all people, would welcome the chance to mend matters with the Clarkes. Must you sound so stuffy and duke-like?”

“I am a duke,” he reminded her. “And why would I want to hold out a hand in friendship to the family that treated our mother so unkindly?”

“She started it,” Viola said, as if that made a difference. “It’s time we mend our fences. And you were always fond of Mena—begging your pardon, Miss Clarke—even if you won’t admit it. Don’t you remember what fun we used to have, especially at the holidays?”

“That was a lifetime ago,” he said. “We were only children.”

Unbidden, a memory of Mena flashed through his mind—the first time he’d teased his sister’s new friend, the daughter of one of the nearby gentry. It had been autumn, and he and his younger brother, Theo, had climbed the biggest apple tree in the orchard. When Viola and Mena had come looking for them, they’d pelted the girls with apples. Mostly they’d missed, but he’d caught Mena a solid blow on the shoulder.

Her brown eyes alight with fury, she’d stomped up to the apple tree, clambered high enough to reach his foot, and pulled hard. Unbalanced, he’d tumbled down, barely breaking his fall with the other branches, and landed, sprawling at Mena’s feet.

“You are so fierce!” he’d said, laughing.

She’d set her hand on her hips and scowled. “Only to people who bedevil me.”

Then she’d turned with a toss of her head, her blonde braid swinging behind her as she went to rejoin Viola.

That flash of temper had surprised him—he hadn’t paid much mind to Miss Clarke, before. After that, though, he made an effort to tease her, just to see the flush of color in her cheeks, the spark of temper in her eyes.

Somehow, teasing had turned to camaraderie as they roamed the grounds of Dovington, getting into scrapes and being scolded by various members of the household staff. Often Theo and Viola tagged along, but sometimes it was just himself and Mena, building a secret tree house or stealing sweets from the kitchen…

“Well?” Viola asked, stepping forward and waving a hand in front of his face. “Will you invite them?”

“I hardly think Mother would agree.” Suspicion stirred in the pit of his belly, and he narrowed his eyes. “Why are you so set on this?”

His sister gave him a studiously innocent expression. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”

 “Matchmaking again, Vi? You’ve no talent for it, if I recall.”

The innocence fell from her face, replaced by impatience. “It’s not my fault you can’t see the charms of Lady Fenton, or the Misses Harding, or—”

“They are all charming,” he said, unable to keep the weariness from his voice. “A bit too much so, frankly. It’s clear they’re more than aware of the advantages of becoming Lady Beckford.”

He turned toward the fire, bracing one hand on the mantel. He’d hoped to escape the increasing pressure to make a match, at least over the holidays.

“Really, Drew—there is no woman in this entire country who’s insensible of what becoming a duchess means. Is this why you insisted on coming to Dovington for Christmas? I did wonder if you were running away.”

“We’ve always had Christmas here,” he said defensively.

Viola gave a snort. “We haven’t celebrated the holidays in the countryside for at least four years, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“You know what I mean. It’s not the same in London.” Their townhouse in Mayfair was pleasant, but it wasn’t imbued with Dovington’s happy memories. He glanced out the window at the dusting of snow lying over the garden and the rolling contours of the dales beyond. “You have to admit, it’s peaceful here.”

“Peaceful.” His sister sighed. “You can’t put it off much longer, you know.”

“I wonder if the sleighs we used to drive are in working order,” he said, refusing to rise to Viola’s bait.

For one thing, he wasn’t looking forward to marrying, and for another, it certainly wasn’t up to his meddling younger sister to choose a bride for him.

“You’re impossible.” Viola slapped him lightly on the arm. “You still haven’t answered me about inviting the Clarkes to stay with us over the holidays. It’s the season of forgiveness, after all.” It was clear she wouldn’t let the matter rest until he gave her a satisfactory answer.

“Aren’t they still in mourning?” he asked.

“It’s been six months,” Viola said. “Long enough that an invitation isn’t too unseemly, especially in the countryside.”

“Then when Theo arrives, and if he agrees, we can broach the idea,” Drew said.

Three to one was the best odds against their mother, the duchess—though he didn’t know why he was even siding with Viola in the matter.

“There isn’t time.” His sister took a few impatient steps back and forth in front of the hearth. “You know our feckless brother. He might not come at all, or if he does, it might be just as the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Eve. We must send the invitation as soon as possible, so that the baroness and Me—Miss Clarke—will have time to respond.”

“They won’t say yes, even if we do extend them our hospitality.”

“So, you will write to them this afternoon?” Her eyes shone.

“If you can get Mother’s consent, which I very highly doubt.”

Viola simply raised her brows. “We’ll see about that.”

Then, grinning like a fox, she swept out of the parlor, leaving Drew to wonder what, exactly, he’d just agreed to.

CHAPTER TWO

Mena stepped into the parlor at Marston Mews that afternoon, where her mother had called a meeting of the entire household. Wan sunlight lay across the faded carpet and illuminated the anxious faces of the assembled servants. There were six of them altogether: Mrs. Taff, who was the housekeeper, along with two maids, Mrs. Stewart from the kitchen, John the groom, and young Tommy, who was fidgeting with his cap.

Mena’s mother, Lady Marston—now the widowed Lady Marston, Mena reminded herself—faced the staff. As Mena entered, the baroness gestured for her daughter to come stand at her side.

“As you are all aware,” she said once Mena had taken her place, “the new Baron Marston will be arriving with his family this evening. Is everything at the ready, Mrs. Taff?”

“Yes, Lady Marston. The rooms have been aired out, including the nursery. And Mrs. Stewart has planned a fine welcoming supper.”

Mena’s mother nodded. “I would like to thank all of you for your excellent service. No doubt the new baron will enjoy the same standard of courtesy and efficiency that you have given my family over the years. I’ll do my best to help make the transition as smooth as possible before Mena and I depart.”

The two maids shared uneasy glances, but the rest of the staff nodded. Mena kept her expression as smooth as possible, though it was impossible to seem cheerful at the prospect of being ousted from the only home she’d ever known. At least Cousin Basil had given them permission to stay through January, though her mother had already moved out of the baronial suite and into one of the smaller bedrooms. Mena would retain her own room until they departed Marston Mews.

And then?

That was the question that kept her awake at night, staring into the darkness above her bed. The future entirely depended upon the generosity of Cousin Basil, of whom she knew very little. From the letters he’d exchanged with her mother, she’d gathered he was a frugal fellow, much concerned with the state of the baronial finances.

She couldn’t fault him for that interest, of course. Going from Devon farm-holder to Yorkshire baron was quite the change.

He was somewhat younger than her mother, and apparently married with several children—how many, he hadn’t said. But Marston Mews had five bedrooms and a nursery in addition to the baronial suite. Surely there would be room enough for all of them for the time being, even if the baron possessed a half-dozen offspring.

Mena’s mother had expressed the hope to him that she and her daughter might be able to stay on at Marston Mews, or perhaps receive a bit of extra funds to help them settle elsewhere. Unfortunately, Cousin Basil hadn’t seemed particularly keen on the idea.

They couldn’t go back to the house in the village where Lady Marston had grown up, as it was now occupied by her younger sister and family and there was not a speck of extra room in the simple little cottage.

Which left them very few options, none of them good.

Lady Marston dismissed the servants, all but Mrs. Taff, with whom she needed to consult about the household inventory. Mena curtsied to her mother, then followed Mrs. Stewart to the kitchen.

“Your parkin cake came out lovely, as usual,” the cook said. “I was hoping I might serve it to the new baron and his family.”

“Of course.” Technically, everything in the house now belonged to Cousin Basil, with the exception of Mena and her mother’s clothing and jewelry.

Mrs. Stewart nodded. “We’ll show him that Marston Mews has plenty to offer. Though are you certain you won’t share the particulars of your gingerbread recipe?”

“You know it’s a secret,” Mena said, slanting her a look. “Passed down through the generations. It’s practically the only inheritance I have, and I intend to keep it close.”

The cook let out a gusty sigh. “One would wish your father had left you a better dowry, and more than eight pounds a year for you and your mother to live on.”

Mena swallowed past the sudden grief in her throat. Not just for her father, but for everything they had lost.

“He believed matters were all but settled between myself and Mr. Whittaker,” she said. “And no one expected a fever to carry my father off so suddenly.”

She hadn’t foreseen how being all but penniless would change her suitor’s mind about marrying her, either.

Mrs. Stewart clicked her tongue against her teeth, but said no more on the matter, though her opinion was written clearly upon her lined face.

Eight pounds a year was a paltry sum. Lady Marston had investigated the possibilities, and discovered they could not even let a tumbledown cottage at the edge of the village for that amount—not with anything left over to feed and clothe themselves.

“We’ll go to London,” Mena’s mother had said. “The city will surely offer more possibilities.”

Cheaper lodging, at least so they’d heard. And more importantly, the agencies that provided governesses and companions to the upper nobility, where Mena planned to present herself for interviews and hope for the best. Lady Marston was too old for such, and even if she were not, a widowed baroness entering employment would be entirely too embarrassing for all parties concerned.

Once Mena found a situation, they would rent a comfortable little house for Lady Marston, and Mena would send all her extra wages to her mother.

“I can take in some handwork, too,” Mena’s mother had said. “Don’t look so shocked—I don’t mean mending. Perhaps some fine embroidery or suchlike.” Something befitting a genteel lady, even if she came from common roots.

Mena hadn’t argued, well aware of the difficult line her mother straddled. Once elevated to the gentry, society held certain expectations of a woman. Appearances were everything, no matter how impoverished one might become.

Oh, if only Mena had a brother!

He would’ve inherited, and then Mena and her mother wouldn’t be in such a mess. The lack of an heir had been a constant dark cloud hovering over the family. It was the cause of the only time Mena had ever heard her parents quarrel.

“It’s your lack of breeding,” the baron had said, his accusatory tone penetrating the closed door of the baronial suite. “The Marston line has never had a problem producing sons. But just look at your parents—nothing but girls.”

“If that is truly how you feel,” Lady Marston had cried, her voice choked with tears and bitterness, “then annul our marriage. Throw Mena and me out on the streets so that you might try again with someone from the gentry. Someone more suitable. We shall leave tomorrow.”

Mena had heard the wardrobe door bang open, and then her father’s voice, low and contrite.

“Martha, wait. I’m sorry. That was wrongly done of me. I don’t want you to leave.”

Muffled sobbing, as though Lady Marston was crying into her husband’s shoulder.

“I feel it as keenly as you,” she’d finally said. “More. I don’t want to be a disappointment to you.”

“Hush. We’ll try again. And if nothing else, I’ll see to it that you’ll be well provided for.”

Mena didn’t know what had happened to keep her father from upholding those words. Perhaps his solicitor had dissuaded him from changing his will, arguing there was still time for Lady Marston to produce an heir. Or perhaps the baron had simply put the matter off, thinking he would continue in good health for another several decades.

Whatever the case, Cousin Basil had inherited, and Marston Mews was no longer home.

~*~

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